


a different sort of touch

by scarletsymphony



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Belts, Biting, Bottom Eliza, Crying During Sex, Cuddling, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Impact Play, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Scratching, Top Alex, Top Drop, Tops Need Aftercare Too, Under-negotiated Kink, brief mention of passive suicidiality/alex doesn't care if he dies, of the happy but intense variety, very switchy power dynamics though, wooden spoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletsymphony/pseuds/scarletsymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though he knows, the doing of it is still delightful. Most people he's met are for something, to him -- for money, for prestige, for power. And Eliza is all those things for him, but when she smiles at him for the first time in his life it doesn't feel he's dragged himself in the mud for it. She makes him feel clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a different sort of touch

**Author's Note:**

> heed the warnings. ~500 words of this is set up and the rest is sin.
> 
> i am not sure how to feel about this one.

Alexander knows the very first moment when Angelica offers her up to him, hand firm on his elbow. _I'm about to change your life._ Her eyes are friendly and trusting. Her smile is sweet and true. She is beautiful. She will be his.

Even though he knows, the doing of it is still delightful. Most people he's met are for something, to him -- for money, for prestige, for power. And Eliza is all those things for him, but when she smiles at him for the first time in his life it doesn't feel he's dragged himself in the mud for it. She makes him feel clean.

Writing for her feels simple. For the first time he is writing himself into something, not out of it, running towards, not away. The feeling of heart pounding desperation isn't quite gone, it's always there, thrumming in his veins, but it doesn't feel as important when he writes to her. So he writes to her, letter after letter, building them a house inside each other's minds.

He makes her smile, makes her blush, makes her laugh. Through it all her gaze on him is steady, clear. She feels solid, like somewhere he can stop at for a moment, sit down. When he gets permission for her hand, he does not delay in telling her. She pulls him to her in her joy, kissing him, her fingers digging into the sides of his face like perhaps he intends to try and pull away.

She stumbles back, looking shocked at herself, then smiles again, radiant. She sits then, inviting him to join her with a hand. He does, leaning in for another kiss, but she just tilts her head up and kisses his forehead. Confused but willing, he lets her pull him until he finds himself with his head in her lap. Her fingers run through his hair, along his ear, smooth down his hair line.

"Oh, love." she says, quiet, with conviction. "We shall be so happy."

***

It is Angelica who starts it, in a way.

They are at Sunday dinner at the Schulyers, a few months after the wedding and the atmosphere is warm. Alexander finds he cannot fully relax at the Schuyler's home. It is too big, too fine, and something about its brass-clean smell unnerves him. Still, the family is kind to him, welcoming, open. He smiles, leans forward, charming, making them laugh. It's an easy game, pleasantly lined will the languor of wine, of which he had his first taste when he visited their household, but that he now enjoys quite well.

The conversation ebbs and flows, and at one point it becomes spirited; Angelica says something, something sharp and cutting. It is not out of character, exactly, but there is an edge to it that makes him look up from where he is sitting with Eliza, hand curled around her waist. Angelica's smile is wide, intent and a little unkind. She raises an eyebrow at him and smirks, challenging, daring.

He looks away because it is a gaze he cannot hold, and more importantly, shouldn't, at least not here. He doesn't look away before his hand accidentally tightens around Eliza's waist though, his fingers digging in unfortunately hard. He looks down, apologetic look affixed and is surprised to note she has leaned into him, relaxing against the tight grip, looking slightly flush.

Well.

***

He had, to this point, been effusive in his love making with Eliza. He liked to gather her in his arms and kiss her against the wall of their bedroom. He stroked her hair, her arms, her feet, her legs, her stomach. He licked her cunt until she shuddered against him, palm flat and insistent at the back of his head. She touched him back with wonder, curious and easily delighted, grinning when she felt him hard, tracing her fingers down his sides when he was in her, moaning quiet and deep in her chest when he reached to grind down on her clit.

She always seemed so fulfilled, so truly joyous in their love making it had not occurred to Alexander that she may respond to a different sort of touch. That night, as they kiss on the chaise lounge he bites at her neck, gentle at first, down to her collarbones. Firming his hand along her back, he bites again, harder, at the base of her neck. She inhales sharply, shuddering. When he bites her ear she jerks in his arms as if helpless to the sensation. He runs a soothing hand down her arm and wonders. Guiding her down to lie on the chaise lounge he is struck by the contrast of her yellow gown with the dark red velvet. Tracing a hand down her side, he touches her hair with the other, gentle caress turning in a firm grip, slowly, by increments. When he ever so carefully pulls she gasps and arches into him, throwing a palm on his chest and thrusting herself against him.

He sets out to continue his exploration in the following weeks. He spends a lazy Sunday afternoon after church at her breasts, squeezing, pinching, rolling, biting, watching her thrash under his ministrations, flush creeping from her face, down her neck as she grips his bicep. No matter how hard he sets his teeth she always arches her back for more, "Please, Alexander."

One evening after supper he lays her out on the rich burgundy of their bed sheets, lifting her coral gown to her waist and pulling away her under things. He traces a hand up her leg, feeling the soft down of her hair, starting from her calf and moving up, up, into the spread of her thighs. "Spread your legs, love." he murmurs and she acquiesces. Starting at the inside of her knees he sets his nails and scratches up, up her thigh. And again. He does it methodically, one hand scratching, one hand resting on her mound of her cunt, unmoving. Soon the insides of both her thighs are scratched pink, and she is panting, squirming. Only then does he rub at her mound, fingers sinking easily through wettened hair, slick folds and then inside of her where it is hot, pulsing. He grips her thigh, thrusts his fingers, and she makes a noise he hasn't heard from her before.

Most interestingly, she is bright after all their encounters, smiling wide and winding her arms around him, pulling him into her lap; guiding his head down into her lap to stroke his hair, wrapping around his back as they lie down, arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder. One time, afterwards, she sits on the chaise, catching her breath while he sits at her feet, leaning on her leg, having slipped off the chaise. She hums contentedly and touches his hair, his ear, his neck, scritching behind his ears. He is surprised at how happy it makes him, these moments after, where she holds him with love and affection, utterly unselfconscious in her sated state, smiling at him like she finds him especially pleasing. It doesn't quiet his mind, exactly, but it makes his racing thoughts feel distant, momentarily unimportant, and for that he loves her.

It is her idea, in the end. She comes to him with a belt and a spoon, large and of dark wood, with squared edges. She presses them into his hand, sliding into his lap until she is straddling him. His circles her waist with one hand, looking up at her questioningly. She kisses his nose, then his forehead, hand brushing across his temple, the side of his head. "I want you to hit me with them." She tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. "I want you to make me scream. Cry."

The damning truth is that his visceral first reaction is a full body flush, brain going blank for a flickering moment. She smiles, pleased, sliding down to press against his sudden half-erection more firmly. He feels unanchored, a little lost. He looks up at her, pleading, but not quite sure what he's asking for, his brain scrambling for the right words.

"Eliza, dearest --" he gathers her hands in his, watching his thumb rub over a spot along her knuckles for a silent moment. "How will I know if it is not too much? What if I hurt you in a way that -- that I don't intend. That does not please you."  Her hands slip from his and she grasps the sides of his face, pulling it up, forcing his eyes to hers. She strokes down his cheek with one hand, and he swallows, hard.

"Alexander, you will know because I will beg you for it." He inhales sharply but she presses on, hands steady on the side of his face. "You will know because if it is too much, I will tell you." She captures his hand and presses it to her chest. "I swear it." He swallows, and nods, for once at a loss for words.

***

She lies supine on their bed, entirely naked and loose-limbed. His eyes linger on her smooth skin illuminated by the soft light of several oil lamps, wishing for her calm. She reaches up, pushing aside the bottom of his frock coat to lay her palm against his waistcoat. He feels the warmth of her hand and lets it ground him, details of the environment diffusing across his awareness. The warm glow of the lamps. The solidity of the bed, the floors, the walls. The spoon and belt, lying next her head, ready. The dark shades of the bed, the floors, the belt almost make her skin look like it's glowing, as she waits for him, quiet.

He moves quickly, one moment next to the bed, the other over her, brushing a gentle kiss over her mouth. She shifts under him, feeling the drag of his fine clothes over her soft body, breath hitching as he slowly disentangles himself and kneels up between her legs, grabbing the handle of the wooden spoon as he does. He trails the spoon down her stomach, then taps it against the inside of each thigh. "Open."

She does, bending her knees and planting her feet wide and lewd. He trails the thing up and down her inner thighs, watching her breathing speed up, watching her wet her lips with her tongue. Then he raises the spoon, letting it come down hard on her left thigh, in the spot exactly between her knee and her mound.  She inhales audibly, shifting. He reaches down to rub at the reddened mark, watching her squirm with almost clinical curiosity, before placing a hand on her knee. "Stay still."

And then he hits the other thigh, same spot, a little harder. She yells a little but remains still, and he pats her knee.

He starts slow, moving up one thigh methodically, with pauses in between each hit to rub at the redness, trail a hand across her stomach, watch her struggle to stay still. A large dark pink patch of skin emerges, compelling Alexander to push her thigh to the side until it's laying flat on the bed and _bite,_ then suck, relentless pressure. She moans, low, jerking underneath him as he licks the bite mark before pulling back his head a little and tisking. "Looks the colour's fading already."

Eliza grins at him, swiping a hand over her own face. "Well, that isn't my fault, is it?" With that she reaches over for the abandoned spoon, offering it to him handle first, smile impish. He takes it, giving her a small nod, adjusts his position slightly and hits a line of six neatly up her left thigh, no teasing this time, steady and without pause. He hears her hiss, and shifts the angle of the spoon so the squared edge is digging into his last hit, making her gasp.

 He grinds the edge in for a long moment, then drags it back down her thigh, eliciting a whimper. Placing the spoon between his teeth for a moment, he trails his hands up both thighs, one marked, on unblemished, watching Eliza squirm, pant, tilt her hips. He meets her eyes, raising an eyebrow as if in mild inquiry, rubbing at her unmarked thigh.

"Please." Her voice wavers slightly. "Please, Alexander." He takes the spoon out of his mouth, tapping it against her right thigh before giving her an complementary six hits, this time work his way from the inside going out, watching Eliza fist her hands into the sheets and gasp, legs trembling but not leaving their place. He alternates then, back and forth, one thigh to the other, slow, but steady, steady, until she bares her teeth and lets out a strangled yell. He wants to hear it mouth open, so he doesn't stop,and instead picks a spot high on her right thigh, and hits there hard, one, twice, three, four times, and then she does scream open mouthed, loud enough that Alexander takes a moment to be grateful for the old money that bought a house with thick walls.

He rubs at the spot and she makes strangled noise, leg twitching. He waits until her breathing has evened out, until she meets his eyes again and gives him a nod. Not breaking eye contact, he picks a spot on the inside of her left thigh, marking his aim with a finger, and brings it down alongside, watching her flinch and bite her lip in a way that makes him reach out, grind his hand palm first into the top of her mound, wet hair giving way to a slick that coats his palm generously. He adjusts his grip on the spoon and she tracks the movement, eyes darkening with lust. He feels her pulse beneath his palm as she clenches.

He pulls back and lets loose, laying several hard smacks along the meatiest, softest part of the inner thigh, up high, where it's especially sensitive, then switches, repeating the process on the other leg, alternating in a steady rhythm. He watches her skin turn darker red, sees the beginning of bruising in that one spot he had hit four times, dark red colour in small scattered flecks, stippled. Her cries rise and he watches her chest, her quickening breath, the way she twists her head from one side to another, and just as she chokes on a ragged breath, chest stuttering, he moves the spoon right between her legs, tapping lightly over her clit. Her eyes widen and she shrieks in anticipation. Alexander watches with interest as her legs yank up, not closing, but exposing the back of her thighs as her knees approach her chest.

"You moved." he observes quietly, pressing the spoon still over her clit down a little. She lowers her legs, slowly, gaze boring into his, not softened in the least by the tears smudging the edge of her eyes. He tilts his head, tapping lightly with the spoon, a question. She jerks her chin to her chest, a nod and he raises the spoon, bringing it down. Not too hard, but firm, enough for her to gasp and flex her hips. He raises the spoon to do it again, but then there's a hand tangled in his hair yanking him up, crashing his mouth into hers, messy, moaning into it as Alex slots between her legs, the cloth of his trousers doubtless sliding against her reddened inner thighs which she brings up to wrap around his waist, holding him by his head with both hands, kissing deep.

Then she's tugging him down to her breasts and he _bites_ , sucking hard and feeling her back lift off the bed briefly. Then, to his surprise, there's a palm on his forehead, pushing him back, then a fist shoving into his chest. A fist clenching the belt. He stares down at it for a moment, blank, before looking up at her, the words _you're sure?_ dying on his lips when he sees the fire, the challenge in her eyes. He takes the belt, turning it over in his hands, snapping it a few times in the air, experimental, listening to the loud sound of their breathing. He moves back, then, slipping off the bed, laying the belt aside for the moment to wrap his arms around Eliza and drag her down to the edge, toes just coming off the end of the bed before she settles her feet open wider.

 He stands, folding the belt over in half, staring down at it, settling his breath until it is even once more, rolling his shoulder. When he looks up Eliza is smirking at him, a sight rare enough that it gives him pause, eyes sharpening to focus on her face. The smirk widens and she says, "I've heard it said that you have excellent aim."

His heart quickens at that, giving a small, tight smile in return. "They're not wrong. However --" he places a hand on her knee, meeting her eyes deliberately "--you must be still." She inhales, and he sees her relax deliberately, feelings the knee under his palm shift minutely, testing stability. He steps back, laying the belt lightly to Eliza's right thigh. Time slows, just like it does before he shoots a gun, vision narrowing and everything going completely, totally silent. Inhale, and his arm snaps down on the exhale once, twice, three times in a row. Her left leg jerks, but the right stays still as she screams, throwing her forearm into her mouth, biting to muffle the noise as three neat, parallel welts start to wise.  She sobs. A beat passes, then another, the tension in the air between then so thick it nearly crackles, and he hears her voice, muffled and shaky "again." but she's still breathing too fast for it.

 Alexander crawls up the bed, placing a palm on her chest and on her stomach, feeling the quickness of her breath, letting her sense it too. "Slow down." and she does as he says, working until the jerky rhythm of her gasps slow and smooth, until she's stopped crying. Only then does he move away, once more standing belt in hand as she stares at him, gaze frank and open, still so open to him, so trusting. Taking a grounding breath he sets his target, tapping the inside of her left thigh, inhale, exhale one, two, three. This time her scream cuts off almost as soon as it starts, turning silent as her whole body arches, tense and clenching for a long moment before collapsing into sobs.

He steps forward, abruptly feeling shaky and disoriented. She props herself up on her elbows, chest still heaving, reaching a hand out, pulling him the last step forward, sitting up. Her hands work to undo his trousers and he lets her, not quite sure what to do until she pulls him down, arms looped around his neck, her face pressed wet against the side of his neck. Her thighs are still wide, and she spreads them further, reaching down to hold him, pushes him in herself, wet, open, unresisting. She gasps when his body hits her thighs, and so does he, his own pleasure ricocheting into his brain sudden and as if out of nowhere, sensation slamming into him. She pulls him into her, rhythm steady, and he finds tears rolling down his cheeks, silent, unbidden, soaking the top of her hair. He would be surprised, but it feels like there's no room for that, no room for anything inside the hot roil of his chest.

Afterwards she holds him to her. They are lying on the bed, facing each other, her arms and legs wrapped around him, holding him tight. She kisses his face, his nose. Rubs a hand through his hair. The twin heat of her thighs and wetness of her centre press against him, and he find it oddly grounding, which is his last thought before he falls asleep.

***

He wakes the next morning out of an unusually deep and dreamless sleep. He wakes in increments, also unusual, with the sun is streaming onto him. The window has been opened.  When he realizes he is alone he sits up, eyes searching until he sees her, across the room, and he's off the bed and padding towards her, coming up behind her as she stands, looking at herself in a mirror, an extravagant, opulent thing stretched to be the height of a person, unlike any mirror Alexander had seen before her, before this house, this life. She is naked, face bare and hair still unpinned and hectic from the preceding night. He looks at her reflection, noting the purple-red bruising on her thighs, the faint mark on the top of her breast. He reaches around her, fingers pressing lightly on the bruises and she lets him, legs shifting.

"What are you thinking, dearest?" His voice, to his surprise, is calm

"That I look beautiful." It is not the answer he is expecting, but his answer comes easily as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "And so you are." He lifts her slightly off her heels, and her head tilts back, eyes meeting his briefly before he sets her down. She turns in his arms, and he looks down at her, soaking in her soft gaze. She brings up a hand, touches the corner of his eye.

"You're going off to the war soon, I suppose?" It's twice now she's surprised him this morning, and perhaps it is the suddenness of the question that makes him answer frankly.

"I must."

She nods, her smile small, sad. "Where shall you go, then, love? You have already refused two appointments."

"To write." he says, contempt in his voice. "I do not wish to write, I wish --" he looks down at her, hesitant, suddenly unsure of what he should tell her.

"To fight." She finishes for him, sounding so resigned he wants to make her understand. He gathers her hands in his.

"It is for our future children, so they may have a place to live that is worth living. If I should live, if I should succeed, it would bring great glory."

"And so too if you died." Eliza says, quiet. Alexander swallows, the words feeling stuck in his throat. He know what she is saying, what she is asking, but he doesn't know how to tell how he sees death everywhere, has since the hurricane. To him prospect of dying does not feel different than the one of living, even on beautiful days like today, the day of their marriage, of his passage to New York, his graduation. On the darker days death feels like an old friend, comforting and nostalgic. Like a memory. He can't tell her that, though. Not Eliza, who still smiles like the world is whole. So instead he takes her hand, leads her back to their bed. He must leave soon, but today is a quiet day, a nice day, and they can have that.

***

It takes eleven days for the bruises to fade and on the twelfth Eliza finds him in the drawing room, packed and wearing his travel clothes.

"Have you been summoned?"

"No. But I must go. I have an old friend in the fray and he may have some use for me in the field."

She pulls him to her one last time before he departs, his head in her lap her hand rest atop it, the other wiping her tears as she weeps. Years later, he wonders if perhaps she knew, somehow, even then, that they would never be the same, he would never be the same. That everyone, everything he loved and who loved him would always fall to ruin.

**Author's Note:**

> your kink psa of the day:
> 
> a) don't get instruction/ideas of what is possible for kinky play from fics. 
> 
> b) breasts and inner thighs are relatively low risk areas for impact in and of themselves. i say relatively bc technically the safest is the ass, but as long as you're staying in squishy places and are not rly thin the risk for light to moderate impact isn't that much higher.
> 
> however. this was pretty high/severe impact, so that comes with higher risk. Also, while a wooden spoon is a good thing to begin with (easy to aim, small area of impact, still hurts like a bitch) a belt is quite risky. Hard to aim, the potential to get someone in the face or stomach is high. 
> 
> eliza+alex were playing hard and fast with pain, as opposed to slowly/cumulatively, which is riskier for reasons related to the troubles breathing eliza ran into/it's easier to panic/harder to slow down etc. 
> 
> play risk aware and informed, okay?
> 
> i still don't know how i feel about this fic. if i continue it, it will definitely just get sadder and darker.


End file.
